


With Friends Like These

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-27
Updated: 2011-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:32:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the endless struggle of Lucy vs. Quinn, it seems the former will never lose ground until Quinn learns what beautiful, popular girls are <em>really</em> like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Friends Like These

Title: With Friends Like These  
Pairing: Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: Through S2 for safety’s sake.  
Summary: In the endless struggle of Lucy vs. Quinn, it seems the former will never lose ground until Quinn learns what beautiful, popular girls are _really_ like.

Cheer camp is more boring than they let on in the movies. From the way her sister talked, Quinn thought this would be the time of her life, but really? She’s never _been_ more bored. Eating, sleeping, gymnastics, and all on a schedule punctuated by seemingly random “icebreakers” meant to bond them together—it’s stupid.

Maybe she’s not cut out for this cheerleader thing after all.

Not that she can tell her father that. A nose job doesn’t come cheap, as he reminds her weekly, and girls who don’t work to _keep_ the weight off tend to gain it right back. If she really wants to change it all up as a freshman at McKinley High, she’s going to have to do things right. Apparently, that means eating nothing tastier than Wheat Thins (she hasn’t had bacon in four months; it’s killing her) and running herself ragged at this stupid camp.

She’s fifteen—practically an adult, from her father’s perspective—and she finally has a body worthy of praise and friends. It takes perseverance. She’s got this.

It helps to have something to look at, a goal to strive towards. The first day there, she’s introduced to her small group: two unmemorable losers with pimply faces and two girls she would have _killed_ to know a year ago.

Hell, she might kill to know them now.

The shorter one has dark hair and tan skin, full lips and an unblemished face. She looks scrappy and alert, constantly bouncing on the balls of her feet when they’re required to stand still and wait for orders. The taller one, a leggy blonde with a bright smile, is calmer, but blatantly goofy. Quinn can’t stop staring at either of them.

It’s clear they know each other; she has yet to see one without the other. The short one, Santana, seems to call the shots in public, but she quiets the instant the taller girl—Brittany—touches her arm. There’s a powerful dynamic there, one Quinn doesn’t quite understand, and she is immediately fascinated.

It doesn’t take a day to decide she wants in.

The desire is easy enough to come by, but actually getting to know them? Not so much. They are _always_ together, heads bowed in the mess hall, hands linked at practice. Even bathroom breaks are in pairs, although that isn’t their fault; it’s just camp policy. Quinn is forced to go with some girl named Melanie, who will likely spend high school lunches hiding in the janitor’s closet. Lucy would have felt bad for he girl, but Quinn can’t afford that kind of bleeding-heart behavior. Problem is, the memory of teasing is so fresh in her mind that she can’t bring herself to be cruel, either. She settles for turning a blind eye while others—Santana, in particular—do the dirty work for her.

It’s rough, but it has to be done if she wants to come out on top this time.

She’s changing, inch by beautiful inch, but still she can’t figure out how to get her foot in the door. So, she settles for watching. It’s not much—it definitely doesn’t get the attention of the two bizarrely entrancing girls—but it gives her something to do apart from tumble and pretend to be someone she isn’t. It is, all things considered, a start.

And it’s interesting. Everything these girls do has _popular_ written all over it. When they eat, they don’t shovel food into their mouths the way she—no, _Lucy_ —once did. They are delicate, careful, choosing morsels so that they get _just enough_ instead of _too much_. They show a certain restraint Quinn hasn’t yet figured out for herself. She makes mental notes to do what they do, but to do it _better_. It’s the only way to get this right.

She continues filling up her internal notebook throughout the day. When they walk, she reminds herself to keep a strong posture: shoulders back, spine rigid, strolling with a fluid ease that is both appealing to the eye and powerful for the body. When they smile, she makes a point to smile with them: teeth even from braces, lips pulled back just enough to reveal a glimpse of their perfection. When they go through their stretches, she positions herself behind them and follows, move for move. Brittany’s left leg extends? So does Quinn’s. Santana bends forward to touch her toes, and Quinn allows her body to roll into a mirroring motion. Smooth. Effortless. She’s learning.

She’s learning, and she’s getting better, but by the end of the first week, they still haven’t noticed her. If she wants to go all-out, really get herself in the thick of things, she’s going to have to step up her game.

She begins following them even when the group sessions are over. During their “personal” time, she covertly trails behind their careless hike through a nearby thicket of trees. After their lunch break, she makes certain she can see every moment of their intimate card game—Go Fish, by the looks of it; Santana makes hilarious faces every time Brittany turns down a request, which sends Brittany into hysterical giggles each and every time. Quinn finds herself wanting so badly to join that she actively has to distract herself, picking up pebbles to skip along the sand instead. When it comes time for the campfire that isn’t _really_ a campfire (that is, it’s a fire at a camp, but apparently cheer camp is too cool for s’mores and songs—which is fine by Quinn, as both of those things belong strictly in Lucy’s territory), she finds the chair closest to them and watches from the corner of her eye.

They aren’t paying her a smidgen of attention, which leaves her plenty of time to absorb the both of them without worrying about being laughed at. And what she absorbs is…interesting, to say the least.

She doesn’t see it, at first. They’re just two girls, clearly best friends, and even if it’s hard to see _why_ that might be (Santana seems so angry and manipulative, while Brittany is sunny and waves at everyone she meets), it doesn’t set off any peculiar alarm bells. Until she starts to look closer. Suddenly, she finds herself realizing that something seems…off. Not that she knows from experience or anything, but she remembers keeping tabs on various pairs of best friends at her old school, just to see how it was done in case she ever got the chance. She doesn’t remember them walking quite that close to one another…or interlacing their fingers quite that naturally…or pushing one another against a tree and—

Her eyes about bug out of her face when she sees Brittany pull Santana into a long, happy kiss. There is something familiar about the act, in the practiced way Santana’s head turns and the comfortable flick of Brittany’s tongue (Quinn can see it from here, which is a little unnerving). It’s simple and thoughtless, like sunshine drifting through her window each morning, and she gets the sense they’ve done this a hundred times before.

She’s been to church. She knows what her dad says about this sort of thing. What she _should_ do is turn tail and run right back to camp, grab the first counselor she can find, and tattle like her life depends on it. She should _not_ continue to yearn for their attention.

But she does. And suddenly she finds herself looking not just for the pair of them wandering about, but for these very precise moments between them. The ones that make her feel just a little bit wrong for eavesdropping on. Like when she overhears Santana murmur over Brittany’s calf muscles before practice. Or when she spies Brittany slipping a rogue hand beneath the table at dinner (at first, she doesn’t understand why this happens—and then Santana’s eyes go wide, her shoulders stiffening, and everything makes sense).

The urge to keep track of them even prevails at night. Quinn’s already getting far less sleep than her body is used to without staying up extra hours to listen to the sounds of Santana padding over to Brittany’s bunk and sliding under the covers with her. Giggles and whispers always follow; something warm and gooey seems to coil in the pit of Quinn’s stomach to hear it. She wonders for a moment why no one else seems to notice, and then realizes it’s because these girls are who they are: beautiful, athletic, unreachable even by cheerleader standards. They can’t be touched; everyone else is busy trying to keep up or stay out of their way entirely. No one would _dare_ make a comment.

It certainly wouldn’t be Quinn’s place to do so. She’s still weak around the edges, doughy, a little undercooked. She’s working harder than she ever thought possible, and she knows she’s good—but she is nowhere near the top of that pyramid yet. At best, she just manages to scramble out from the very bottom. One wrong move this close to high school, and she could be looking at four more years of a slightly-prettier game of Lucy Caboosey. She needs to be watching her step, not waiting with bated breath for another glimpse of pale fingers under a tank top.

This is not the girl her father paid for.

She tries for days to shake the urge to tail them like a puppy, but for the sake of learning, it just seems wiser to keep doing what she’s doing. They’ve never given so much as a signal to invite her over, and she figures that won’t be changing anytime soon; they’re far too wrapped up in one another to even notice her existence. Nothing new, really. At least they aren’t teasing her, and this way, she gets a chance to continue prepping Quinn Fabray around their habits.

She’s going to become a whole new woman before this camp is over, and she’s going to do it without getting into a single speck of trouble. It’s genius.

Right up until the moment she stupidly forgets sneaking through the woods sometimes leads to stepping on branches. Loudly.

Coincidentally, this is exactly the moment Santana Lopez chooses to become aware of her existence on Planet Earth.

“Who’s there?” she snaps from the ground, pushing Brittany away and scrambling to her feet in the same motion. She’s managing to brambles from the seat of her shorts and advance upon Quinn’s hiding place at the same time, a feat which is both exceedingly quick and nothing short of petrifying. Quinn wishes she had had the presence of mind (or arm strength) to at least climb a tree for this particular spying session.

“Britt, get me a branch,” Santana commands, reaching back with one hand when Brittany immediately complies. “A big one.”

“If it’s a bear, you have to promise not to hurt it,” Brittany warns her. Quinn can’t help but roll her eyes.

“I’m not a bear,” she says as loudly as she can, stepping out from behind a bush and frowning. “I’m sorry, I was just—“

It’s amazing how fast and visibly the fight drains from Santana’s body, replaced with a casual shrug of her shoulders and an explosive, irritated sigh. “Oh, _Christ_. It’s just that blonde chick again.”

She knows she should feel insulted that they don’t even know her name, but she can’t help but indulge a sharp thrill instead. _Blonde_. They have no idea this isn’t her natural hair color. It may be the tiniest win of this epic war, but it’s still something.

“The stalker?” Brittany asks interestedly, peering around her friend and meeting Quinn’s eyes. “Hi! I’m Brittany.”

“I know,” Quinn replies, fully aware that it’s the rudest response ever. She winces, brushing a lock of hair from her eyes. “Quinn.”

“I’m gonna stick with Creepy Stalker Chick,” Santana sneers. “You seriously have nothing better to do than spy on us?”

“I’m not spying!” Quinn protests. Santana arches an eyebrow, arms crossing over her chest. She barely twitches when Brittany winds an arm around her waist and tucks her chin against her shoulder, blue eyes wide and curious. Quinn sighs. “Okay, maybe I was spying a little.”

“For a week and a half,” Santana prompts. “You think we didn’t see you? You walk like an elephant wearing moon boots.”

“Elephants are cute,” Brittany chimes in, nudging against Santana’s neck with her nose. Quinn stares until Santana bares her teeth.

“What?”

“N-nothing,” Quinn manages, hating herself for the habitual stammer. _Lucy_ stammers. _Lucy_ stumbles over her words, flails around for the right thing to say, is so desperate to be liked that she can’t convince a single person to attend her birthday party or join a group project. _Lucy_ is weak enough to cower under the vibrant authority in Santana’s eyes. Quinn?

Quinn has spent _months_ shaping a new identity. A strong one. Quinn doesn’t lie down and take crap from _anybody_.

“I just thought we could hang out,” she hears herself say in a firm voice, head held higher than it’s ever been in the presence of girls like these. Santana’s eyebrow jerks a little higher towards her unkempt hair.

“Really.”

“Yes,” Quinn replies, doing her best not to choke on the syllable. “The three of us, I think we could be something. Really take this place by storm.”

“There’s a week left,” Santana reminds her witheringly. “Little late to be storming anything, creeper girl.”

Quinn falters, sneaker instinctively scuffing against the soft ground. “I just—“

“Whatever,” Santana interrupts, turning her head a fraction of an inch to look at Brittany. “What do you think?”

Blue eyes sweep up and down with laser-like focus, making Quinn feel what it really means to be someone’s prize horse. It is easily the most uncomfortable she has felt while wearing this name like a badge inspired by something she hasn’t quite earned yet. Brittany smiles.

“She’s pretty.”

Two words. Quinn knows it’s sad to be floored by something so simple, a compliment given out daily, but she can’t help it. These girls are _gorgeous_ , all toned muscle and not a pimple to be found. These are the models high school royalty is made of. _She’s_ just some cast-off with a bit of luck and some weight loss, a bundle of nerves and broken expectations and dyed hair. And Brittany thinks she’s _pretty_?

“Fine,” Santana says grudgingly. “You want in? You’re in. But only until you annoy the shit out of me, got it?”

Quinn nods, trying not to look too eager. She gets the distinctly irrational sense that she has just signed her name in blood on an invisible contract, especially when a slow smirk trawls across Santana’s full lips.

“Good. You ever done this before?”

“Ever done…what?” The question barely makes it out of her mouth before the terror sets in. Brittany unwinds herself from around Santana and begins to advance, her movements predatory and delighted. It’s like being stalked by a tiger whose boldest craving is for sugared cereal; she _probably_ won’t wind up dead and dismembered, but there’s no way to promise that for sure.

And with Santana slinking around on her other side, her confidence is dropping straight through the floor. Quinn raises her hands protectively, head shaking.

“I don’t know what we’re doing here, but I’m—“

“You’re in,” Santana hisses, threading her fingers through one of Quinn’s hands. Brittany takes the other, eyes sparkling.

“It’s fun,” she assures cheerfully. “Santana’s awesome.”

“I totally am,” Santana agrees without an ounce of irony. Quinn swallows hard, discomforted by the way her stomach seems to be running circles around itself.

“You know, when I said ‘hang out’, I kind of meant play Scrabble,” she babbles in a very un-Quinn way. Lucy is clawing her way up from the basement, bucking against her chains at a steady pace. The longer Quinn’s mouth stays open, the closer Lucy will get to the surface, a ghost that can never stay buried for long. This is exactly what she was afraid of, exactly why she went to cheer camp in the first place—

Santana’s mouth closes over hers, and Quinn is surprised by how _good_ a first kiss can feel. She always expected hers to be awkward, or maybe to never come at all, but this is…this is actually very nice. Santana is steering, of course, and that probably has something to do with it, but why look a gift horse in the mouth?

Or whatever. It’s a little hard to remember nerdy things like that when Brittany is easing her t-shirt aside and biting down on her collarbone. Against her will, Quinn’s head rolls back, eyes widening. Brittany hums against her skin, licking and sucking like she’s trying to get at the Tootsie Roll center of Quinn’s very being and, yeah, okay, being in is kind of great.

Her father would hate her if he knew. He would set her on the fast track straight to Hell. But this is camp, and what happens at camp _stays_ at camp. Right?

 _Oh._ Her fingers sift through what’s left of Santana’s battered ponytail, gripping hold as a soft tongue winds into her mouth. Brittany’s hands are moving up, sliding under the t-shirt as her body presses against Quinn’s. She can feel warm skin and sweaty cotton sticking to her hip, her ribs, her thigh. Santana closes in from the other side, and just like that, Quinn’s in the middle of a hot-cheerleader sandwich.

And, against all odds, _she_ is one of them—both hot _and_ cheerleader.

It’s almost impossible to believe. If not for the fact that she has never had a dream like this in her life—certainly not one with her right nipple being teased by a blonde with legs like a Valkyre, or her left thigh being steadily ground against by a fierce girl in sinfully tiny shorts—she would wholeheartedly embrace the idea that she is currently asleep. Except she can’t remember ever being this wet in a dream, not even when Lucy used to fantasize about the day her sister’s quarterback boyfriend would ditch out for someone smarter and prettier on the inside.

Lucy never got what she wanted, but Quinn is standing on wobbly legs in the middle of a forest with two beautiful women lavishing attention upon her body. Maybe it’s not a Cinderella story the way she expected it to play out, but she has to admit, it’s progress.

Santana’s mouth slides away from her own, slippery and entrancing, and it’s all Quinn can do to keep from whimpering in panic. If Santana leaves now, this whole dream will fall apart, and she will be left standing here alone, Lucy to the last—

But Santana doesn’t budge from where she’s standing, only reaches over and drags Brittany forcefully into a kiss. Quinn watches with wide eyes as their mouths move with that same practiced ease, tongues twirling and pirouetting even as their hips continue to rock against her body. It’s agonizing, to feel them against her skin and get no contact where _she’s_ throbbing, but she can’t seem to tear her eyes away. It’s too much, too beautiful, and she’s _right_ in the middle of it.

A tiny moan slips from her throat, hoarse and raspy, surprising her. Santana’s eyes flicker open; she smirks into the kiss and jerks Brittany’s shirt up over her breasts, her shoulders, her head. Quinn’s lips part, her face growing hot.

“I…I need to sit down,” she tries to insist, but Brittany is already pushing on her shoulders, easing her onto her back and following suit. She feels the gentle weight of strong legs settling around one thigh, Santana roughly mirroring the action on the other side, and groans when they press down in unison. She knew from instructional videos in science class that women are supposed to grow damp when aroused, but she never realized it could be like _this_. They haven’t even stripped off their shorts, and still she can feel the sticky heat against her skin, coating her, marking her. Her hips buck up off the leaf-coated ground, fingers scrabbling against Brittany’s waist, Santana’s stomach, desperate for contact.

She wants to plead, beg, ask that they offer her what she needs— _I’m in_ , she wants to sob, _I’m in, so give it to me_ —but that isn’t Quinn behavior. Begging and whining is for Lucy; Quinn is the girl who takes what she wants, drags it down to her level and sucks it dry. Quinn takes no prisoners; she always, _always_ goes in for the kill.

Her fingers wrap around their wrists, yanking towards the waistband of her shorts. Santana grins even as she mercilessly rides against Quinn’s thigh, and obediently slides her left hand in. On the other side, Brittany is rocking and moaning, grasping a wrinkled handful of Quinn’s shirt and hauling it up to reveal a stomach that is slowly heading towards ideal. She bends to kiss Quinn full on the mouth, teeth nipping at her bottom lip, just as Santana finds the throbbing ache with skilled fingers.

Quinn’s back bends, eyes snapping shut. It feels good, so much better than she has ever managed on her own. Santana knows what she’s doing, fingers drawing quick, tight circles around nerves that seem already to be stretched to the breaking point. She knows what she’s doing, building Quinn higher and higher, and Brittany’s tongue tracing designs inside of her mouth is only helping. The wet heat of the kiss, the sensation of two bodies rubbing frantically against her own, the skip-putter-pause of Santana’s fingertips as she quickly loses control—it’s all far more than she ever anticipated.

When Brittany snaps, moaning long and low into Quinn’s mouth, it seems to push Santana off the highest of cliffs. She cries out, fingers spasming and pressing down almost too hard, sending sparks firing up and down Quinn’s limbs—

She’s grateful for the warm lips covering her own; they muffle the explosion threatening to rip loose and echo all the way back to the campsite. As it is, she’s probably too loud for the birds, and the squirrels, and, _oh God_ , she just had a threesome in the woods.

With two girls who barely know her name.

What was she _thinking_?

She stays very still as they come down, breasts heaving, brows damp with sweat. This is _ridiculous_. She came out here to learn how to be popular, not star in a sad, cheerleader-oriented _porno_. What would her father think?

 _He’s never going to know_ , she protests against the terrified little voice. _Never. Just get up, thank them for their time, and walk away. This never has to happen again. One more week, and they are out of your life forever._

Santana seems to read her mind as she stands and pulls Brittany up with her. “Thanks for the ride, Blondie. Do me a favor and don’t say a fucking word to anyone, okay? I’d hate to have to soil my hands dumping your pretty ass in the lake.”

Brittany flutters her fingers happily and pulls her shirt back on. “Nice meeting you, Quinn. Next time, just let us know if you want to watch.”

“Yeah, right,” Santana scoffs, but Quinn thinks she catches a hint of a smile. Then again, maybe murder just looks different on everyone. She makes a note not to go walking alone at night for the rest of the week.

That week, helpfully, goes by like a shot. Quinn goes out of her way to avoid running into Santana and Brittany, choosing instead to work her ass off during practice and spend breaks running drills of her own. It’s what she should have been doing all along, she tells herself, not watching a couple of randoms perform sexual acts on one another. She wasted half the camp on something that didn’t even _matter_. It’s embarrassing; even while caged in the basement, Lucy’s rampant desire for friends still manages to get in the way.

 _No more_ , she commands herself as they’re running wind sprints on the last day. _Get to school and_ own _the place. No Lucy. No friends. No distractions._

It’s a good plan—solid, firm, without a single crack to be found. On September third, when she walks through the front doors of McKinley, it is with her chin up and her eyes bright. Quinn Fabray has arrived.

When two shadows—one tall and blonde, the other compact and dark—move to flank her before she even reaches homeroom, it takes every ounce of resolve not to do a double take. Santana’s voice snickers up to meet her ears, teasing, “You think we let just _anybody_ into the club, there, Q?”

It’s not the kind of friendship they talk about in books, but then again, Quinn’s never exactly had friends before. Santana Lopez and Brittany Pierce, it turns out, tend to be the kinds of girls who bring with them many Firsts—first kiss, first drink, first party, first torture session upon another freshman (she feels guilty for sending slushies into the face of some tiny slip of a girl with a big nose, but hey; at least it’s not her). They are beautiful, powerful from the very start, and clearly still the best of friends.

Lucy would have been content to tag along behind them, eyes wide and mouth grinning.

Quinn will accept nothing less than leading the pack.

High school is going to be very, very different.


End file.
